


love it dissipates

by bygoneboy



Series: nobody expects the ferelden inquisition [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Happy Ending, Halamshiral, Hardened Leliana, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Morally Ambiguous Character, The Winter Palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-04 08:05:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4130529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bygoneboy/pseuds/bygoneboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"He is the Herald. He is not something delicate and honeyed for you to savor and enjoy as you please—he belongs to the Inquisition, not to you.</i>" </p><p>"<i>Do not forget that he is their soldier, Dorian. He will use you as he sees fit.</i>"</p><p>...</p><p>A three-part exploration of what it means to be the Inquisitor, and what it means to be the Inquisitor's lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If you were a country,

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the lovely Vashiane for coming up with the nickname "Snowflake" for Galahad! You are perfection at its peak. Also, thank you to Twisty and Katie for putting up with my constant whining about this fic.
> 
>  
> 
> [I have a twitter](https://twitter.com/fathobbitlover)
> 
>  
> 
> [I have a tumblr](http://friend-of-the-abc.tumblr.com)

It begins with an execution. 

Galahad is a good ruler, Dorian knows. An accommodating host, a graceful politician. A handsome face beneath a strong title and a non-existent crown. He does not pretend to be more than he is. 

But he sits on the Inquisition’s throne like he was born to. 

Dorian doesn’t usually attend the rulings of Inquisition judgment. After Alexius’s trial, in which Galahad was blessedly lenient, he hadn't seen a reason to care about whom else came before the Inquisitor to plead their case. 

Perhaps that was selfish of him. 

Still, the truth is that it is entirely based on chance, the fact that he happens to be passing by at the moment that he is. 

He’s on his way to the tavern to speak with Cole about a suspiciously familiar-looking toy rocking horse that he’s found stuffed under his library armchair when he notices a crowd gathering in the clearing below. On a wooden platform with his hands bound and his mouth gagged kneels Erimond, the most recent Venatori agent they’ve apprehended. Curious, Dorian pauses. 

And watches as Galahad climbs the platform, strides toward Erimond with a jeweled broadsword in hand. Watches as Galahad raises the sword—

He doesn’t have time, filtering through his shock, to look away.

Erimond’s head rolls past Galahad’s feet. 

The crowd cheers. 

Dorian turns, and stumbles back toward his library. 

“You all right, Sparkler?” Varric asks as he brushes past, his brow creased in concern. “You look a little faint.”

“Fine,” croaks Dorian. “I’m fine.”

 

\---

 

It begins with an execution and Dorian can’t seem to leave it there. 

Galahad smiles at him a few days later, stopping to chat briefly before heading up to see Leliana— about _matters._ “Spymaster things,” the Inquisitor says mischievously, grinning like it is a game, and Dorian thinks about the way that Galahad had raised his fist in response to the jubilant cries of the onlookers, about the way that Erimond’s neck had spurted thick ruby red blood, about the way that the Venatori agent’s body had flopped like a fish out of water at Galahad’s feet. 

_Did you have to kill him?_ he wants to ask. _And if yes, did you have to do it yourself?_

_What did it feel like, slicing through his spine?_

_What did it feel like, taking his life to the sound of applause?_

_Do you understand what that kind of power means?_

“Dorian?” Galahad says, peering at him. “Is something wrong?” 

_I love you,_ he thinks. _I’ve seen this before,_ he thinks. _Don’t let me lose you,_ he thinks.

“It’s nothing,” he says, and kisses him, hard. 

 

\---

 

His distress fades, but it takes time.

Some days are worse than others. He has taken to writing home—more often than not simply trading barbs with his father over disagreements in political and social affairs—and one afternoon he receives a response to his description of Erimond’s death that shakes him to his core. 

_He is the Herald,_ his father declares. _He is not something delicate and honeyed for you to savor and enjoy as you please—he belongs to the Inquisition, not to you._

_Do not forget that he is their soldier, Dorian. He will use you as he sees fit._

Even when the days are free of worry, his nights grow steadily worse. He begins to wake with chilling images seared into his mind: Galahad’s hands, dripping scarlet, Galahad’s innocent smile poisoned, soured into something dark and cruel, the Inquisitor himself someone that Dorian no longer recognizes. 

He has always dreaded temptation. Nothing has ever horrified him as much as the prospect of succumbing to the sweet seduction of power. But now he comes to the conclusion that there is something worse than losing himself to that temptation: losing Galahad, instead.

He’s taken to sleeping in Galahad’s bed and so when he bolts upright out of the nightmares, sweat-soaked and gasping for air, his lover is always there to rub the dread from the strained set of his shoulders, to stroke the back of his neck until he is breathing easy again. During the nights that Dorian is too afraid to find sleep again, Galahad wears him out: straddling him readily, kissing him deep, grinding against him until he is breathless and moaning and unable to think of anything other than the hard contours of Galahad's body, the velvet of his voice, the soft lines of his face, his own release. 

Dorian never tells Galahad what he dreams of. Galahad, maybe seeing the depth of the fear in his eyes, never asks. 

But it does fade, bit by bit. Galahad’s sweet mouth and gentle words wipe away his worry gradually. The weeks pass and there are no more executions. No more unspoken questions that burn in his stomach, churning with paranoia, and eventually, no more nightmares.

He does not forget—not entirely. And when he has set the memory of Erimond’s execution into the far reaches of the back of his mind, Dorian happens upon on a scene that is strangely reminiscent of home. 

Galahad’s chambers are filled with servants and tailors and bunched strips of colorful, patterned fabrics. Someone has set up a mirror in the middle of the room and the tailors have steered Galahad in front of it, buzzing around him taking measurements of his waist and shoulders, calves and thighs. He is there when Dorian walks in, bewildered expression melting into rapt joy as he spots the altus.

“Dorian,” he calls, laughter in his voice. “Josephine and Vivienne joined forces and demanded that I spend the day looking at shoes and _sashes—_ save me, won’t you?”

Dorian hides a smirk behind his hand. “May I remind you that _you_ were the one who was so eager to accept Celene’s invitation?”

“Well, it isn’t as if I can _knowingly_ allow an assassin to tear apart the Orlesian court,” Galahad remarks, looking slightly uncomfortable. 

“Thank the Maker for that,” Dorian snorts, wandering forward and admiring the way that Galahad’s coat cinches at the curve of his slender waist. “It’d be more than a little worrisome if you could.” 

Galahad pauses, as if weighing the worth of the words settling over his tongue— but then one of the tailors raps his shoulder sternly, and he rolls his eyes, lifting his arms another inch higher in resignation. “In any case,” he continues, “I don’t care about the ball— and I don’t care for any of this finery, either—” He meets his own expression in the mirror and makes a face. “Andraste’s ass, I look ridiculous.” 

“Mmm. Now there, I’d have to disagree. In my _very_ humble opinion,” he circles Galahad’s mirror, waving the attendants back politely, “you look extraordinarily handsome.” 

The Inquisitor blinks at him, watching his approach with a slow smile. “Do I, now?”

“Most assuredly.” He takes Galahad’s hand and bows, pressing a formal kiss to his knuckles, and a less formal one to the inside of his wrist. “You’ll charm the entire court right out of all that finery,” he says, amused, and then, quietly and for Galahad’s ears only, “and me out of mine.”

Galahad’s smile widens; he turns toward his attendants but does not pull away from Dorian’s grip on his hand. “If you don’t mind,” he says, speaking to the tailors, “I would like to discuss a few choice things with Master Pavus.”

“We aren’t quite finished,” replies one of them sternly, eyes flicking toward Dorian with a less-than-friendly gaze. 

But Galahad sways them effortlessly. “I’ll have him send you in when we’re done,” he says sweetly. “This won’t take long, I promise.”

They disperse one by one, collecting their things and bowing deeply before backing out of the room. Galahad stays attentive and courteous until the door has clunked shut—

And then he drops the pretense of manners entirely and wraps his arms around Dorian’s waist, lifting him a foot off the ground and spinning him in a circle once, twice, three times until Dorian is dizzy with the twirling and with him. 

“Galahad,” he exclaims, breathless, “put me down, you oaf—” 

He is all careless joy and laugh lines and Dorian’s hands find his shoulders and grip tightly, gazing down at him with a swelling in his chest— _this_ is the Galahad that he knows. The one that he adores most, the one he has defended against his father’s doubt— _he makes me happy in a way I never would have known, had I stayed a member of your household; he is the Herald but he will never use me— do you understand love, Father?_

When he at last sets Dorian back on his feet he stays close, close enough that Dorian can make out the faint tattoos dotting the skin beneath his left eye. “You’ll come with me, won’t you?” he asks eagerly. “To the Winter Palace?”

“Assassins, political maneuvers, scheming,” Dorian hums, kissing his mouth, his chin, across his jaw. “I’ve seen it all already—what’s another round with the Orlesians? I’d be happy to join you in Halamshiral, if you wish it.” 

“You know I do.” Galahad’s cheeks are flushed, a definitively sharper smile peeking through his soft sweetness as he draws back, just slightly. “It seems there’s an upside to this madness, after all.” 

“It certainly does seem that way,” Dorian purrs, looking up him through dark lashes. “The red sash looks better than the orange, by the way.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Galahad replies, delighted. “After all, you’re the one who’ll be taking it off.” 

Dorian chuckles, dipping down to press his mouth against Galahad’s again. But when Galahad tries to tug him closer, he breaks away, waltzing toward the door.

“Vivienne was kind enough to inform me that if, for whatever reason, your measurements aren’t finished within the hour, she’ll have my head on a stake,” he calls breezily over his shoulder as he beckons the attendants inside again. “I’ll see you tonight, _amatus._ We leave for Orlais the day after tomorrow— please remember, it’d be a shame to go without you.”

“Tease,” sighs Galahad, smiling past the blush creeping up his neck. “You’re absolutely terrible, you know that?” 

But he lets the tailors tug at the cuffs of his longcoat. 

And he keeps a hand on the red sash. 

 

\---

 

It is a long way to the Winter Palace and so the collective decision is made to go on horseback, cutting the length of the trip in half and giving them precious extra time to plan and pack. 

Cassandra has accompanied them, along with the rest of Galahad’s advisors—and Varric, which isn’t particularly humorous until Dorian realizes that the dwarf, short and stout as he is, will actually need to ride a horse. 

Dorian doesn’t try to hide his mirth as the storyteller is helped, with some difficulty, onto his mount, and neither does Varric himself. 

“Tell me, Sparkler,” he chuckles, winding the reins tightly around his fingers and peering over the side of his horse to check how far he has to fall, “how out of place do I look right now?” 

Dorian observes him carefully. “About as out of place as Bull would look riding a halla—but let’s not linger on that, it’s unsettling just imagining it.” 

“Imagining what?” Galahad slows his stallion next to Varric, quite literally dwarfing him in size. “Never mind, I probably don’t want to know. How’s the air feel up here, Varric?” 

“Unusually thin, I admit, but thank you, Snowflake.” Varric sends a feigned scowl and a heavy sigh his way. “I’ll simply have to suffer through it.”

The Inquisitor winks at him. “As long as you can make it to the Orlesian border, you’ll be fine.” 

“Are you nervous?” Dorian asks him, feeling the familiar spark of delight in his belly that he usually feels when Galahad’s lilac eyes meet his.

“Nervous?” Galahad’s voice is filled to the brim with surprise and Dorian squints at him, unsure whether Galahad is honestly puzzled, or if he’s being made fun of. “Why would I be nervous?” 

Dorian shrugs a little. “Oh, you know how the Orlesians are. Constantly judging the way that you’ve styled your hair, how you’re wearing your clothes, who you’ve taken as your lover…” 

Galahad laughs. “Are _you_ nervous?”

“Only for you, _amatus,_ ” Dorian says airily, waving a hand in dismissal. Galahad’s amused expression tells him that he hasn’t bought the blatant lie—but then Cassandra canters past, turning Galahad’s attention toward her with the shout of his name and a request uncharacteristically carefree for all of her straight-backed seriousness. 

“I’ll race you to the valley,” she calls, flashing him a rare grin like a ray of sun in a thunderstorm, short dark hair blown back from her forehead. Galahad’s eyes light up at the challenge, flicking his reins and urging his stallion into pursuit with a single word. 

They burst ahead, leaving Dorian and Varric behind in the wake of their dust and elation and mock war cries, the hooves of their steeds striking the ground and the peals of their laughing banter drifting away on an echo. Watching them gallop past the gate, Dorian feels affection burn hot in his chest, the warmth curling around his heart the way the flames had curled around his father’s letter, tossed among the embers of Galahad’s hearth. 

_Do not forget that he is their soldier,_ he remembers, spelled out among the scrawl of his father’s penmanship. _He will use you as he sees fit,_ he remembers, the red-orange coals charring the parchment into flakes of black ash.

He spurs his horse forward, and adds his laughter to the echo of theirs.


	2. If you were the wounded,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I know the path that you want him to take, I’ve seen what you are breeding him to be—”_
> 
> _“I am not breeding him to be anything but himself,” Leliana says, and when Dorian does not immediately respond, she continues. “He is not as simple as you seem to think he is."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't had coffee this morning so I apologize if there are any mistakes, I'll probably catch them within the hour ;_;
> 
> aLSO THIS STARTED OUT AS A DRABBLE? IT WASN'T SUPPOSED TO BE THIS LONG I SWEAR. I HAD TO MAKE IT THREE CHAPTERS I'M SORRY!?
> 
> It also wasn't supposed to be this sad I 
> 
> ????
> 
> One more chapter after this one! Hope you stay tuned <33
> 
> [I have a twitter](https://twitter.com/fathobbitlover)
> 
> [I have a tumblr](http://friend-of-the-abc.tumblr.com)

They’ve travelled light, wearing simple armor and carrying with them the bare minimum needed to last them to the palace and back. With the solid shape that Master Dennet has kept the horses in, they make fast work of the long-stretched miles between them and the Orlesian court.

The first night they make camp, Dorian is already saddle-sore, and he sets up the tent he shares with Galahad with every intention of passing out as soon as he has laid out his bedroll. He is already half-asleep when Galahad climbs in beside him, their tent flap falling closed—but Galahad, apparently, has other ideas.

“I need to talk to you,” he says quietly, stretching out beside the altus and lifting a hand to trace along the sharp angles of his cheek.

“Hmm,” Dorian says drowsily, unsuccessfully attempting to swat him away. “What.”

“I’ll need you to wake up, first,” Galahad says, amused, dropping a kiss to his bare shoulder. Dorian hums, breathing him in, sweat and earth and something with a vague, sweet fragrance— _is that vandal aria, or the perfume Josie had imported for him from Antiva?_ Whatever it is, it is unfairly intoxicating, especially after their day of travel. He draws the scent in through his nose and exhales slowly, turning over to press his face into the crook of Galahad’s neck.

“’Kay,” he mumbles against Galahad’s skin. “M’awake. But if you don’t make it fast, I might fall asleep halfway through—”

“I think we should put some distance between us,” says the Inquisitor, and Dorian’s blood runs cold.

He breaks away from Galahad, scrambling to push himself up to a sitting position, staring at him wide-eyed, shrinking into himself thinking _no, please, no—_

“Oh _fuck—_ Dorian—” Galahad pales almost immediately, looking sickened. “Sweetheart, that’s not what I meant, I— I just meant that during the _trip,_ that while we’re in Halamshiral— the Orlesians will be watching us, you know, and I just—”

Dorian isn’t sure what expression he is wearing, but he knows that he has always been an open book and his chest is tight, torn between fright and relief and pain—with a frustrated, wordless noise Galahad pulls him into his arms, kissing down the corner of his mouth to the curve of his neck, the hollow of his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he soothes. Dorian’s hands are trembling and he holds him tighter, digging his fingers into Galahad’s back. “It was Leliana’s idea. Because of your affiliation with Tevinter, she thought that— that if we wanted to impress, we shouldn’t appear—affectionate, toward each other. Just when we’re within the eyes of the people, and the court— Maker, forget it, I’m sorry—”

“Leliana’s idea,” echoes Dorian, his heart still thudding out of rhythm. The hysterical impulse to laugh is bubbling in his throat. “Your—your Spymaster?”

“We don’t have to.” Galahad leans back to smooth Dorian’s dark hair away from where it’s fallen, disheveled, over his forehead. “Listen, she means well for the Inquisition, but if her wishes go against what you want—”

Dorian _does_ laugh at that, albeit roughly. “Priorities, _amatus,_ priorities.”

Galahad shrugs, kisses him gently on the mouth. “You should know that there are things I am unwilling to sacrifice, Dorian. You are one of them. We’ll appear at the Winter Palace together—”

“No,” says Dorian quickly, stopping his words. “The Inquisition—you need Orlais’s support. We’ll do as your Spymaster says; I can bear to go a few days without warming your bed.”

Galahad sighs, but he doesn’t protest. “I suppose...like you said, it’s only for a few days, only until we’re back into Ferelden. It’s just politics.”

“It’s just The Game,” Dorian agrees.

Neither of them comment on the way that their explanations sound unsettlingly like excuses.

Dorian sleeps fitfully at first, then not at all. When the sun peeks past the mountains they’ve left behind, he leaves Galahad to his dreams and slips silently out of their tent to poke at the dry ash of the long-stale campfire, unable to quiet his mind.

Leliana ducks out of her tent a short while later, sleepy-eyed. He studies her carefully: watches her run her fingers through her auburn hair, watches her stifle a yawn behind her hand. Galahad has always spoken of her fiery attitude and careless laughter; Dorian has only ever seen her cool façades, the way her gaze always flickers too confidently through the room, bird-like.

She catches his eye from across the camp, and smiles.

“Good morning,” she says, Orlesian accent heavy. “Did you sleep well?”

“Not as well as I’d hoped,” Dorian replies curtly, his jaw set in stone.

To his irritation the Spymaster crosses toward him amiably, falling into step with him as he throws his pack over one shoulder and strides toward their tethered horses. “Was it the heat, or nightmares?”

She poses it as a question, but he is struck by the annoying notion that she already knows the answer. “Nightmares,” he mutters, setting his bag down and stroking the neck of his gray-dappled mare. It had resurfaced, the paranoia and the blood trickling through Galahad’s fingers and _he will use you as he sees fit—_ “They faded for a bit,” he clears his throat, “they’re back now.”

Leliana’s words are light and lilting. “I wouldn’t worry. They’ll fade again; they always do.”

 _You would know,_ Dorian thinks. _Wouldn’t you, Lady Nightingale?_

She fits the title perfectly.

She is curious and charming and oh, he can see something faintly and dangerously reminiscent of Galahad in her. Maybe once she was as kind, as honest, lacking ulterior motive. Maybe before she had ever played The Game, or before her time with the Warden had expired.

“What are you thinking?” Leliana asks, tilting her head, and well.

It’s hardly a good idea to lie to a Spymaster.

“Galahad trusts you immensely,” he says, fidgeting. “Perhaps—too much.”

Leliana raises a thin eyebrow. “As his advisor, he’d do right to trust me.”

“Oh, please— you’re more than an advisor,” Dorian accuses sharply; his mare nickers nervously at his temper, skittering away from him. “I know the path that you want him to take, I’ve seen what you are _breeding_ him to be—”

“I am not breeding him to be anything but himself,” Leliana says, and when Dorian does not immediately respond, she continues. “He is not as simple as you seem to think he is. He excels at manipulation, he plays The Game as if he has played it all his life—”

“Galahad is not your puppet,” Dorian hisses, stepping close. “And neither am I.”

The Spymaster looks at him impassively, tucking her red hair behind her ears.

“What—” Dorian folds his arms tight across his chest. “What are _you_ thinking?”

“Only that you are right,” she replies softly. “He is not my puppet, Dorian. If anything, I am his.”

There is a pause in which Dorian thinks he sees pity in her eyes, an apology on her lips. But then she smiles at him again, and the moment passes.

He holds Galahad more tightly the next night. Orlais and its Winter Palace loom ever closer.

He does not seek Leliana out again.

 

\---

 

They cross the border between Ferelden and Orlais the evening before the ball itself, and Dorian steels himself to unlearn the intimacy of a lover—shying away from Galahad’s smiles, stepping away when he moves forward. Galahad’s mouth twists as he notices, but he remembers their agreement, and plays along.

Their party finds reserved and decently clean rooms in an inn just a short ways away from Halamshiral, courtesy of Josephine’s connections. Food and spiced wine are brought out and served, pleasantries are exchanged—and then unease begins to settle back into Dorian’s bones, its icy fingers slipping around his throat and squeezing.

It’s the flattery and attention, of all things, that spark the restless anxiety.

Many of the inn’s inhabitants are visibly stunned to be in the Inquisitor’s presence, slowing as they pass to stare, unabashedly— and he can’t really blame them. Galahad is beautiful. Captivating. He has always had a way of stealing the eyes of everyone in the room, with his violet eyes and his confident voice and the way that he moves, deliberate, steady. And the first time it happens, a young elf plucking up the courage to draw close enough to brush slim fingers against Galahad’s shoulder, Dorian smirks, expecting Galahad to sigh and wave the fawning devotee away like campfire smoke that stings at his eyes.

But Galahad doesn’t.

To Dorian’s shock, he hardly seems to mind at all, even when the elf continues to hover, minute after passing minute. He grins widely at any and everyone who skitters within range. He says hello to the innkeeper’s pretty daughter, who goes bright red and nearly spills ale all over her friend.

He keeps himself reasonably close to Dorian throughout the night, his hand resting on the altus’s thigh from under the table. But even so, Dorian feels strangely distant— cut off from the merriment radiating from everyone else. It is like he is watching it all happen from far away. As if Galahad is out of his reach.

To an extent, he is.

He longs to take Galahad’s hand in his. To turn the Inquisitor’s attention toward the perfect way Dorian’s mouth fits against his, and away from the awestruck audience he has made of the inn’s occupants. He wants to rest his hand against Galahad’s waist, to whisper sweet nothings into his ear— and he would, if they had not determined the necessity of distance required between them.

 _This is your own damn fault,_ _Dorian,_ he seethes inwardly, watching as Galahad introduces himself to a man who looks as though he has just been granted nobility. _You encouraged this—you and the Divine’s Left-Fucking-Hand._

The hours drag on; it is barely tolerable. When at last Dorian can take it no longer, he pushes to his feet.

Galahad catches his hand before he can escape. “Going already?” he asks quietly— as if hushing his voice will draw the spotlight away from them.

It is a ridiculous assumption. Dorian can already feel the eyes of the Orlesians burning holes into the back of his head: suspicious, unfriendly, _magister_ sharp on their tongues and _Vint_ sparking behind their teeth.

Galahad is not his, here. He is theirs. 

Dorian gets the message.

“I’m tired,” he replies, faking a smile and tugging his hand out of Galahad’s grip, clapping him on the shoulder in the camaraderie way he has seen Cullen do. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Galahad gnaws on his lip, searching Dorian’s face. “If you’re sure,” he says carefully. “You’ll—you’ll let me know if you need anything, right?”

_I need you! Not what they are making you into, not what you are becoming—_

“Of course,” Dorian says. “Goodnight, Inquisitor.”

He forgets to bow, in his haste to get away.

 

\---

 

Warm breath on the skin of his neck. Lips pressing softly against his cheek. Dorian smiles, half-awake at the feeling of the familiar, toned body settling next to him, one arm draped carelessly around his waist; he curls against him instinctively, wriggling slightly to get comfortable on the inn’s squashy mattress as Galahad sighs drowsily—

_Wait._

He freezes.

“Galahad,” he whispers sharply.

“Yes?” the Inquisitor mumbles nonchalantly, voice still thick with sleep as he nuzzles against Dorian’s jaw.

“What in Andraste’s name do you think you’re doing?”

Galahad kisses the nape of his neck. “Sleeping.”

“For the love of the Maker—”

He untangles himself from Galahad’s loose embrace, struggling to raise himself up onto his elbows. Galahad lets him push away. In the dark of the room it’s hard to see his face.

“Go back to your room,” Dorian presses. His voice is still barely more than a whisper; the walls aren’t that thin, after all, and it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Galahad sounds worried. “Do you not want me here?"

 _Venhedis._ Dorian sighs. “I— _amatus,_  this has nothing to do with what I want.”

"You were so...quiet. At dinner." Galahad’s white hair shines softly in the shadows as he bows his head, drawing his knees up to his chin. “I had to…Maker. It’s more difficult than I thought, pretending that you’re nothing more than a friend to me.”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s difficult,” Dorian chides. “It’s a matter of what’s socially respectable in the eyes of your political opponents, and the common people, and of those that we need now more than ever to _impress._ We’ve discussed this—”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Galahad says hotly.

He has so much bottled up. The inn’s reception was jarring itself but the nightmares have set him on edge, the Spymaster's knowing smile has settled beneath his skin—

Anger is easier to reach than fear.

“Good for you,” he retorts, “I _haven’t._ I refuse to openly be the source of the rumors that Josephine so often brings to your attention, and I won’t have the remnants of your tainted reputation on my hands—”

Galahad’s jaw sets in a stubborn way. “So I can’t share your bed tonight, because it will single-handedly destroy the Inquisition's good name.”

“Perhaps not single-handedly, but be assured that it will most definitely fuel the fire.”

“That’s absolutely—” Galahad’s arm swings wildly as he gestures in frustration. “All of Skyhold knows that you share my quarters! I’d say that’s a touch more intimate than some shitty inn—”

“Skyhold is filled with _your_ people,” Dorian says scathingly. “Outside of your walls it’s a different story entirely— you don’t think it’s popular with the Orlesians, the tale of the evil Tevinter magister seducing the noble Inquisitor?”

“You’re not evil,” Galahad says, rubbing at his forehead wearily.

“And I’m not a magister, either, but that hardly matters to them! It doesn’t help that I’m a man—”

Galahad huffs, and the altus glimpses a rare sliver of true bitterness on his face. “This isn’t your father’s house, Dorian, no one _cares—”_

“You have no _idea_ what people care about!” _Channel hurt into anger, pain into anger, use anger, Dorian, it is easier to reach._ “You don’t _listen—_ you don’t see the way that your priestesses whisper behind your back, or the way that your servants look at me—they think I’m using you, my father thinks _you’re_ using _me—”_

“Let them think what they want!”

“Oh, now _there’s_ an idea,” Dorian seethes. “Just wait until they come knocking at your door with enough manpower and influence to replace you. With all the time that you spend with your beloved Spymaster, you should know how revolutions begin!”

Galahad exclaims, wordlessly, in exasperation. “Dorian, I thought we were past this— this _fear!_ Andraste preserve me, everything’s a threat to you, isn’t it?”

“Forgive me if my concern for you gets in the way of you doing whatever the hell you want—”

 _“I’m the Inquisitor!”_ And without warning there is a deadly fire in his violet eyes that Dorian has never seen before, a snarl in his voice that Dorian has never heard, venom like jeweled swords and ruby red blood and the roar of the masses. “I freed every mage in Ferelden. I saved the Grey Wardens, _I’m_ going to put an end to the Orlesian coup and if I want to do it with you by my side, no one will dare stop me— _no one_ in the entirety of Thedas has the power that I do!”

The words ring in the empty silence of the room.

Dorian suddenly feels sick.

“I—” The tense set of Galahad's shoulders weakens slowly, his face paling as the thunder behind his voice drains away. “I’m…sorry. I don’t—I don’t know why I—”

“I’m done talking about this,” Dorian says quietly, not looking at him. The tremor in his voice has nothing to do with anger.

Galahad makes a noise torn between frustration and grief. “I only meant that—”

“I heard what you said.”

He turns over, lies down, his back to Galahad.

“Dorian, please.”

He closes his eyes, and doesn’t answer. A childish reflex, perhaps. But he doesn’t want to see the slow-dawning awareness on Galahad’s face, can’t bear to listen to the stammered apologies as Galahad begins to grasp the extent of how deeply he has cut Dorian.

When the Inquisitor touches his shoulder, he flinches.

And that is apparently all Galahad needs to take his cue to leave.


	3. I'd be your everything.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“He fled,”_ Cole says softly, and honestly, what else should Dorian have expected? _“I frightened him away, found fear burning like a flame in his dark eyes, my fault, failed him. So sorry, sorry I scared him, sorry does not suffice— he will never forgive me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do they have champagne in Thedas? They do now! 
> 
> Sorry it took so long to get the last installment up and finished! Depression's a bitch.
> 
> Still really nervous about this story. I hope it's not awful. ;_; If you like it, kind comments make me smile and sniffle a little and you should leave one!
> 
> If you don't like it, kind criticism _still_ makes me smile, because I'm always looking to improve, and I would love to hear what could make this better!
> 
> I've made a few close friends after stumbling into the Dorian fandom and everyone I've met so far is so lovely and sweet. I'm so glad that I worked up the nerve to write stuff about these two. Thank you so much for reading! I hope your day is wonderful, and that your favorite song comes on the radio, and that you find some money that you forgot about in your pocket. <33
> 
>  
> 
> [I have a twitter](https://twitter.com/fathobbitlover)  
>  
> 
> [I have a tumblr](http://friend-of-the-abc.tumblr.com)

The ride to the Winter Palace is more than uncomfortable. 

The tension between them is painfully obvious.

Cassandra and Cullen both spur their horses on ahead of the group, unwilling to be secondary participants in the stiff, fabricated civility exchanged throughout the ride. Josephine does a terrible job of pretending not to notice. Varric cracks awkward jokes. Leliana observes, silently. 

It is unbearable, and at last Dorian turns his horse away and falls a good thirty yards behind the rest of the party in an attempt to find some breathing room away from their companions. 

Unfortunately, Galahad pursues. 

Before he has a chance to swerve away the Inquisitor coaxes his stallion into a trot alongside him. “Dorian—”

“Don’t,” Dorian warns, staring straight ahead. “I’m not in the mood.”

Galahad adjusts his hold on the reins nervously, looking miserable. “Last night, you— you know I never meant to upset you.” 

Of course he knows. 

Dorian’s father and the years after his betrayal, always weighing him down, Galahad’s smile warm like a ray of sunlight in the blackness of Dorian’s mind and it is hard to forget that Galahad loves him, with what they have already been through together. But still, against all of Dorian’s better judgment, he cannot for the life of him keep his emotions in check. 

That is how it has always been. 

“You are here for a reason, Galahad,” and his voice is so bitter, damn it, so openly hurt, “don’t let me hold you back. I am an adornment on your arm, nothing else— I’ve told you as much.” 

“You have always meant more to me than that,” Galahad says softly. “I’ve told you that much, as well.” 

“I—” Dorian digs his nails into his palm, hating the vulnerability in Galahad’s expression. “I can’t do this right now. We can speak after your business with the assassin is through.” 

Galahad calls out his name again as he moves to pull ahead, “I didn’t mean it,” he says desperately. “You understand, don’t you?” 

_I love you,_ Dorian thinks. _I’ve seen this before._

“Yes,” Dorian says, nudging his horse forward. “Of course.” 

_Am I losing you?_

 

\--- 

 

Halamshiral reminds him too much of home, with the way that the Orlesians smile at each other while secretly longing to tear their companions’ throats out with their teeth. 

There are, of course, blatant differences—the punch is adequate at best, the architecture is much less impressive, and the fashion is monstrous at the very least— Maker, if there is one thing he is proud of Tevinter for, it is their finery, and the fact that they refrain from wearing masks at every opportunity. It must be very difficult for Orlesian women to breathe, draped completely in fabric but for the little breathing hole at their mouths. He chuckles at his own thought and turns to tell Galahad, but _no, Dorian, he is not beside you, remember?_

Still, Dorian can see him, out of the corner of his eye. 

He had apparently disappeared for a time—Dorian had heard multiple guests asking after him, each one of them haughtier than the last— but he is back now, standing in his own little corner and chewing on his lower lip.

He looks as handsome as he always does. Dark blue uniform creased tight over his shoulders, black boots buckled to his knees—he’d gone with the red sash, after all. Every now and then an Orlesian noble will attempt to introduce themselves to him, but Galahad seems less than willing to be cordial, his gaze time after time finding its way to where Dorian stands, sipping at the glass of champagne in his hand. 

As fearful as Dorian is for how the remainder of the evening will play out, he finds himself wishing that the Inquisitor would make his decision. _Ignore me or come over, but don’t hover, Galahad._

If only Cole were here, to spell out the hurts in each other’s hearts for them. 

At last he sees the Inquisitor straighten—adjusting his coat, tugging at his collar—and make his way toward him. Dorian swirls the remainder of the champagne in his glass and downs it quickly, bracing himself. 

“Master Pavus,” Galahad greets him as he approaches, his smile unsure. “Are you enjoying the party?” 

“Immensely,” he replies, lying through his teeth. In any other time, any other place, Dorian would have watched the power plays and political maneuvers with glee. Here he finds himself sick with worry, praying to a god whom he is sure no longer cares that the rest of the gentle goodness in Galahad remains untainted by the end of the night. 

He tries to hide the anxiety crawling under his skin the best he can— but he can’t hide the sullen edge to his voice. 

“It’s a familiar scene, after all— almost exactly like a soiree in the Imperium. I’m sure that _you_ are enjoying it yourself, reveling in the court’s double-dealings.”

Galahad releases a sharp breath. “Dorian—I don’t _like_ any of this. The secrecy, the politics—”

“You could have fooled me,” Dorian retorts. “The way you play The Game, it’s…”

_As if he has played it all his life._

He trails off, and a heavy silence replaces his words. To fill it he jerks his hand up to call one of the servers over, setting his empty glass on the tray with a blunt word of thanks. Galahad shifts his weight uncomfortably as the server sweeps out of sight. 

“Listen,” the Inquisitor says finally, running a hand through his hair. “I…this isn’t how I wanted tonight to go. I brought you with me because I wanted to share this with you— not because I wanted to fight. I wanted this to be something of ours. Not just another thing that the Orlesians have ruined.” 

Dorian can’t help but feel a small smirk pull at the corners of his mouth, at that—their shared dislike for Orlais still runs strong, at least. 

“And I…have a request,” Galahad adds, reaching out to touch the back of his hand and looking endlessly relieved when Dorian does not pull away. 

They have fought before, but he cannot remember a time when it did not immediately end in soft kisses and stammered apologies. It is in his nature to be stubborn, but not with Galahad. 

Never with Galahad. 

Perhaps he has held out for long enough.

Dorian releases the last of his trepidation with a sigh. “A request?” 

“Dance with me.”

Well. Whatever he was expecting, it was not that.

 _“Dance_ with you?” he splutters. “Here?” 

Galahad’s smile is back, beaming at Dorian’s surprise. “Yes, _here._ We don’t have a ballroom at Skyhold, as far as I know.”

“We— we _can’t,_ Galahad— not with everyone watching—”

“I promise to be a perfect gentleman.” 

Dorian shakes his head. “I won’t compromise your—” 

“Stop that,” Galahad scolds him gently, tangling his fingers with Dorian’s and squeezing lightly. “Dorian, I have run it through my mind again and again and I always end up at the same result: I will never sacrifice you for the satisfaction of anyone else. If Orlais’ support stands or falls on the question of whether or not I love you, then—then let it fall.” 

A swell of emotion surges up in his chest, tightening his throat; Dorian cannot find it in him to coherently reply. _Oh, amatus—_

“I made an ass out of myself, yesterday,” Galahad continues. “Let me make it up to you now.” 

He isn’t sure why he is resisting anymore, not with the doe eyes that Galahad is giving him and the way that he is stroking his thumb along the inside of Dorian’s wrist. “The assassin—” he insists weakly.

“If I told you it was already taken care of, would you believe me?” His smile has grown into something wider, truer, the laughter in his eyes beautifully familiar. 

And Dorian gives in. 

“I’ve never doubted you before,” he says, and when Galahad starts toward the ballroom floor, Dorian follows. 

They cross between the gleaming pillars, descend down the stairs toward the chamber where couples are taking their places for the beginning of the next dance. They are nearly to the bottom of the staircase when a voice calls out, demanding and insistent.

“Ser Trevelyan.” 

They both turn. Above them at the top of the landing stands a woman, slender and poised. Her gown, fit tightly against her body, shines like pearl; there is a carefully crafted radiance about her. _Royalty,_ Dorian knows immediately, although he cannot for the life of him place her, her face hidden behind one of the silver masks that are so endlessly popular here.

“Lady Florianne.” Galahad bows. Startled, Dorian does the same—Florianne, he remembers now, is the name of the Empress’s lovely cousin. “Is there something I can do for you?” 

She smiles at him, all picturesque white teeth and dimples. “Just a small task,” she coos. “I was hoping to claim you for the next dance.” 

Dorian’s heart sinks. 

No matter how much Galahad claims to love him, this is The Game, and Florianne a member of the Orlesian royal family—

“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline,” Galahad replies, his hand moving to rest at the small of Dorian’s back. 

Dorian tries very hard not to gape. 

Florianne’s smile turns cold. “Really?” she asks icily, folding her hands delicately together. Her eyes are fixed on Dorian and he sees the way that she looks him over, picking him apart. “A request from me is not a request lightly turned down, Inquisitor.”

“Forgive me, my lady.” Galahad smiles back, matching her word for word. “It’s simply that I’ve already promised this dance to someone else.”

He bows again, deeply. It does nothing to wipe the unpleasantness from Florianne’s half-hidden expression. 

“Have a delightful rest of the evening. Give your best to the Empress for me.”

Dorian’s feet seem to be rooted to the marble stairs; Galahad steers him gently down to the ballroom floor, the palm of his hand still splayed over his back. 

“People are— are _staring,”_ Dorian mutters, his heart hammering in his throat. “That did not go unnoticed, Galahad, even Celene, _fasta vass—_ maybe you should dance with Florriane after all—”

Galahad stops him with a white-gloved hand over his chest. “Let them stare,” he says, eyes petal-soft, and then he’s guiding one of Dorian’s hands to his waist, threading his fingers through the other. He is leading, and bless him for that, because under the gleam of the chandelier, and the smooth stone of the ballroom floor, and the tender way that Galahad is looking at him, Dorian can’t seem to remember any of the steps.

The music is quick and sweet, a light flute carrying the melody. Galahad begins the dance with sure footing and Dorian does his best to follow as they melt into the cadence of the waltz, joining the already assembled whirl of Orlesian skirts and gleaming embroidery. 

“I’m sorry about last night,” the Inquisitor murmurs, dipping his head down slightly so that Dorian can hear him. Galahad’s breath grazes his ear, and he tries to keep from shivering. 

“You’ve said that already.”

“I’ll keep saying it,” Galahad turns him, touch feather-light on his elbow, “until you believe me.” 

He feels vaguely euphoric, all at once. 

_Is Leliana watching this? I do hope so._

“I think the dance is apology enough,” he admits, the corners of his lips tugging up into a hesitant smile, something in him melting. The same warmth that he felt at Skyhold’s gates is uncurling in his chest again; not even a day has passed since their spat but he still feels relief flooding through him, _Galahad, amatus, thank the Maker—_

Then, suddenly, a blur of movement off to their right, and Galahad’s eyes go wicked, dagger-sharp, and flicker away.

Dorian blinks at the shift. “Galahad?” 

Galahad doesn’t reply. He is still following the waltz’s steps but his attention is nowhere near Dorian, fixed on a spot to the right of Dorian’s head; puzzled, Dorian follows the Inquisitor’s line of sight, through the crowd, past the heads of the guests who have gathered along the sides of the ballroom to watch them, and finds—

One of Leliana’s agents, clad in the Inquisition’s own uniform, making their way toward the stairs. 

A lump builds in his throat as an inkling of understanding pierces through the fog of his fast-fading joy. 

_“Amatus?”_ Dorian asks again, softly, _hoping, prove me wrong—_

But Galahad’s eyes stay trained on the staircase, and the look in his eyes is predatory. 

_“Galahad—”_

The Inquisitor startles slightly, then, glancing back at Dorian. “Sorry,” he says, lightly, “just lost in thought for a moment, I suppose—”

_He will use you as he sees fit._

“It’s a distraction,” Dorian says hoarsely. “The dance, it’s— it’s a distraction.”

Galahad’s face is carefully set but Dorian feels him tense beneath his hands. “What?” 

“You needed a distraction,” he repeats, wishing away the burning behind his eyes and the ringing of his father’s words in his ears. “To keep everyone’s eyes on us, instead of on your Spymaster’s people— _kaffas,_ you only asked me to dance because—” 

Sorrow flashes briefly over Galahad’s face; a moment later the guilt has been erased entirely— _such an actor, so good at pretend._ What had Leliana said? _He excels at manipulation—_

“Dorian—” The altus nearly pulls away and Galahad tightens his grip. “Dorian,” he speaks low, quickly, “forgive me, but right now I need you to smile, and laugh, and pretend—”

“Pretend for your fucking _Game—”_

“For _me,”_ Galahad coaxes. “Pretend for me, love.”

Dorian swallows hard. 

_He will use you—_

He does as he’s told.

“The assassin,” nausea surges over him as he does his best to hide the pain, “who is it? Don’t tell me that you don’t know, you’ve hidden enough from me already.”

Galahad pauses as they sweep close past an Orlesian couple; when they are once again isolated on the ballroom floor he continues. “Florianne,” he answers. “We were—that is, Leliana was almost positive that it was her before we arrived, and the evidence we’ve found within the palace walls has confirmed it. I’m sure her request for a dance was a cover for her to put her own people in place without my guard being raised. It’s good that she hasn’t yet discovered that her agents have already been taken care of.”

He has had them slain. Dorian reads the truth in the blankness of his expression. 

The music swells, skirts swirl, Galahad leads, and _he will use you_ beats an echo into the back of his head, pounding a frantic rhythm that is as unsteady as his heartbeat. 

“You’re going to kill her,” he realizes. “Florianne— you’re going to kill her here, aren’t you, in front of everyone, the way you killed Erimond—” 

“Dorian,” and Galahad’s words are gentle, now, as if he is speaking to a child, “love, I have to. Once she murders Celene, her death will be considered necessary by the court—”

 _Maker, no._

Shock hits Dorian like a wave, crashing over him and he is drowning, words gasped, “You’re going to _let_ her kill Celene?” 

“Briala deserves the throne,” Galahad replies evenly. “It’s already been decided.”

Dorian’s voice is trembling, his fake smile faltering, “That blood will be on your hands. Please, stop her, apprehend her and do it publicly if you must but _don’t—”_ He breaks off shakily. Their hands are still pressed together as they waltz through the room but he feels the desperate urge to press himself closer, to drop to his knees, to beg. “Don’t kill her and don’t let her kill Celene, not in front of all these people, not like this—” 

Galahad’s eyes flash again, this time with something that Dorian wants too badly to call doubt—and then a few things happen, all at once. 

Another blur streaks past the corner of Dorian’s vision, Galahad’s second agent working their way through the crowd. 

Dorian’s hands leave Galahad’s waist, lifting to cradle his face in his hands.

And Galahad leans forward, and presses his lips against Dorian’s. 

His mouth is familiar, warm— Dorian crushes himself into it, fingers curling into Galahad’s hair. A hushed chorus of murmurs and gasps breaks out from the crowd around them; they kiss in the middle of the Imperial Court, surrounded by the multitudes of Orlesian nobility, and Dorian _does not care._

He realizes now that he would destroy Galahad’s reputation himself, just to see Galahad’s heart stay pure.

It is a realization hours too late. 

“I love you,” he gasps when they break apart, holding onto each other in the middle of the ballroom as the rest of the dancers pass them by. “But I’ve seen this before, and Galahad—”

“I know what I’m doing.” 

“Don’t let me lose you,” Dorian whispers, feeling it all begin to slip away, the foundation of his faith in everything he has fought to keep crumbling beneath him. 

But Galahad remains steady, squeezing Dorian’s hands in both of his. “Trust me,” he vows, drawing back, “you won’t—”

A high-pitched scream shatters the air. 

Too late. 

Within seconds Galahad is gone, out of reach, moving like a hunter out of the circle of dancers with fire already sparking along the tips of his fingers. From the balcony there is the flurry of struggle; Dorian raises his eyes to watch, helpless, as Empress Celene buckles, staggers, clutches the railing with white knuckles.

Her mouth sags, blood soaking through the silk of her dress. Behind her Florianne backs away triumphantly, red-stained blade in her hand.

Too late, too late, too late. 

The Empress falls, and the ballroom erupts in chaos. 

The crowd surges, the dancers dispersing quickly into a furiously distraught mob. Blades are randomly drawn, shouts and accusations and cries of terror and confusion and fear ripping through the air; someone shoves Dorian, hard, and he stumbles, gripping the man next to him to keep from falling. 

Dark hair and pale face and Cassandra is pushing through the crowd, eyes wide— “Dorian!” she cries, steadying him, “Dorian, what is he doing?” 

His attention diverts back to the balcony— Florianne is already restrained, flanked by two of Leliana’s agents, her arms pinned tight behind her back and a small knife held to her delicate throat even as she kicks and screams, red-faced and furious.

Galahad steps out from the shadows, Leliana at his side, and speaks a low word, inaudible. Without pause the agents drag Florianne to the railing, stepping over Celene’s body to bare her to the crowd. 

Leliana passes Galahad a dagger, gleaming smooth and sharp. 

“Maker, stop him,” pleads Cassandra. 

“Release me!” shrieks Florriane. 

_Do not forget that he is their soldier,_ his father warns. 

And Galahad hesitates.

His eyes sweep through the ballroom, over the mindless disarray of the mob, and find Dorian in the crowd. 

_Please,_ Dorian begs, unsure whether he is speaking out loud or praying, his eyes fixed on Galahad, _please,_ over and over and over again, _please._

Galahad nods, once. 

And he sheathes the dagger.

 

\---

 

It does not take long for the bards to begin composing their praises, after Celene’s body is dragged away. 

The Inquisitor was simply a moment too late, they say. The poor Empress. A shame. 

Not his fault. 

Blood comes out of the marble tiles quite easily, it seems, and is erased from the minds of the masses just as easily. 

Briala is placed on the throne, leading the country from behind the safety of carefully chosen human puppets. Florianne is exiled. 

Dorian does not return to Skyhold. 

Not immediately, anyway. 

There are some things that he does not forget as easily as the Orlesians do, and so he takes what little he has with him and travels. Western Approach, Storm Coast, he avoids company and larger cities and the places that he remembers Galahad frequenting. He does not know exactly what he is looking for, or where. It is easy to convince himself that he is simply in search of solitude, after the packed-in crowds of Halamshiral. Solitude, and rest, he thinks. A break from the politics, that is all. 

It is three weeks before he admits that he is _running—_ not searching— and that the thing he is running from has followed him, all the same. 

He is so afraid. It chokes him like sickness, curls tight around him like ivy— he is afraid of who Galahad will be when he returns. Afraid of the look that will be in his once-gentle eyes, of the casual way he will take the Inquisition's throne, of the ease in which he will wield the executioner’s blade. 

But he has spent entirely too much of his life being afraid already. 

It has to end somewhere. 

 

\---

 

He arrives back at Skyhold at dusk, the air heavy with the promise of rain. Turning the reins of his horse over wearily to a stable hand, he trudges slowly up the stairs to the castle’s entrance— and when the double doors swing open, he is met with a quiet gasp.

“Cole,” he greets him, too tired to feign off exhaustion but managing a small smile for the little wisp of a spirit who peers at him with pale eyes from beneath his wide-brimmed hat. “How are you?”

“He fled,” Cole says softly, and honestly, what else should Dorian have expected? “I frightened him away, found fear burning like a flame in his dark eyes, my fault, failed him. So sorry, sorry I scared him, sorry does not suffice— he will never forgive me.”

Dorian squeezes his eyes shut. “Where is he?” 

“Waiting,” says Cole. “The bed seems so barren when you are not in it.” 

He has never been happier to hear a straightforward answer, even in Cole's poetic verse. What a relief, to remember that there are no masks, here— still, he climbs the stairs to Galahad’s chambers with his palms sweating and his heart in his throat, on his sleeve, _be who I remember._

The door is already unlocked. 

The Inquisitor is at his writing desk when he steps inside, scratching away with a quill. 

When Dorian says his name, he startles, jerking like he has been slapped, the quill splattering a thick inky black line over the words he has so carefully crafted—but he tosses the quill down without regard for the rest of his work, staring at Dorian like he has never seen anything so bright.

“You’re back,” says Galahad.

“Yes,” says Dorian. 

“For—for good?” 

“Don’t you remember?” Dorian jokes, flat and half-hearted. “I adore the South to little pieces.” 

There is a long, weighty silence, then. 

Galahad pushes back his chair and stands, pacing around the edge of the desk with one hand still braced there, as if he will fall if he lets go. “I can have your things moved back into your old room,” he says. “Is there anything you need right now?”

Dorian’s breath catches but he steps closer, refuses to turn and run. “You'd rather I move out?” 

“No— but I—” Galahad gestures vehemently. “I’m—I’m not an _idiot,_ Dorian, I know that not everything can be fixed with an apology.” 

“Do you regret it?” 

“Of course I regret it!” His voice is angry but his eyes are wet, his hands are shaking, “And I hate that it took so long, I hate that it took hurting you to realize that— Maker, it doesn’t feel like a victory at all, I don’t care if I’ve gained an empire if I’ve lost you—”

“You haven’t lost me,” Dorian says. “Have I—have I lost you?” 

“For a moment,” Galahad says, words breaking like water over rock, “I think you might have.”

“And now?” 

“Never—” Galahad whispers, “never again—” 

Dorian surges forward, closing the gap between them, his hands tightening in Galahad’s hair, kissing him hard, deep, frantic. Galahad’s voice is breathless when he draws back to gasp Dorian’s name between kisses, mingled with apologies and the taste of salt as weak, thin tears trickle from the corners of his eyes. 

Dorian’s hands ride up under his shirt, fingers slipping over his skin with Galahad’s body firm against him, he presses him against the desk’s edge and holds him there. There is a kind of fire sparking between them that is wild and bright and nothing like the sweet, soft lovemaking that they are so accustomed to, with each other— this is not soft, not sweet, it is hungry and desperate and _I need you, I need you, I need you to stay._

He gathers the fabric of Galahad’s shirt in his fists, tugs it up over his chest as Galahad lifts his arms; Galahad is already fumbling at the laces on Dorian’s trousers and they stumble back toward the bed, shedding layers as they go. Galahad rolls and arches beneath him, flesh and blood and the body Dorian knows so well underneath Dorian’s hands, and he thinks that if he stops touching him he will crumble and disappear so instead he holds him like a lifeline, digging fingers into his back so hard that he knows he will leave bruises. 

He can feel Galahad shaking beneath him but he also feels the desperation that he pulls him closer with: the trembling of the moans caught in the back of Galahad’s throat, the way that he presses his knees into the curve of his waist and whispers, _Sweetheart—_

_Stay._

They move together, in the midst of the heat between them, flushing and hard and wanting; Galahad’s hands find his shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles into the crook of his neck, white hair sticking to his forehead and white lashes hazing over violet eyes. He melts against him slowly until at last he shatters, panting and writhing with half-choked whimpers, _yes_ and _please_ and the syllables of Dorian’s name, his hips trembling and jerking and he sobs, helplessly, as he comes, Dorian following after, quivering, breathing, spent. 

They stay there, tangled together, for a long time, with Galahad’s lips against his neck, soft breath against his skin. He traces invisible patterns with his fingertips over Dorian’s chest and Dorian holds him close, aching arms around him.

Perhaps fate— or a pretty nightingale with a smile like secrecy, and sweet words like song—had intended something different. For Galahad’s name to be spoken in fear, for whispers and darkness to grant him dominion. For him to kill like a king. To rule the way tyrants do, cold and iron-willed.

But fate had not anticipated Dorian. 

He will not let him go, he swears. 

And when he dreams, tonight, it will be of laughing violet eyes, and Galahad’s gentle smile.


End file.
